When most people think of Christmas cake, they might imagine gingerbread or fruitcake. Me? Immediately, I pictureSunshine Cake. Don't ask me where the name comes from—it's just the one that's printed on the recipe card that my mom's good friend gave her. Instead of the traditional holiday spices, it's all about the sweet, buttery flavor of almonds. And when my older sister was born, my mom began the ritual of baking it for the family on Christmas morning. Once I came around, the importance of the cake was so settled it wasn't even a matter for discussion. Even more than the arrival of presents under the tree, I grew up knowing to expect its warm almond scent drifting up from the kitchen to my bedroom on that holiday morning.
My dad, born and raised in India, never celebrated Christmas until he moved to this country in his twenties. When he met my Irish Catholic mom, she quickly showed him the ropes, learning to sipeggnogwith a healthy sprinkle of ground nutmeg and how to eat a few too manyChristmas cookies. Soon they were the ones hosting the holiday, celebrating it with my mostly expat Indian relatives. My uncle would come carryingKingfisherbeer that he'd bought from the one local liquor store that carried the Indian brew, and everyone would sit and chat in English and their native dialect while my mom finished cooking.
Before dinner, my uncle, though a practicing Hindu, would lead us in a Christmas prayer. Then we'd dig in: there'd be bakedham with raisin sauce, a tradition from my mother's New England family, along with mashed butternut squash and potato gratin. My aunt would bring the green beans, though hers were always sautéed with nutty black mustard seeds in true South Indian fashion. Dessert would involve pies, cookies, and often, my aunt's incrediblegulab jamun—sweet fried dumplings soaked in warm, rose water-scented sugar syrup. It's a dessert that often makes an appearance at Indian holidays and celebrations and was a welcome contrast to the rest of the spread.
This mishmash became our tradition. Over the years our Christmas has developed over time and with that have come new quirks. After living in Italy for a year, I brought back my friend's recipe forbagna cauda, a warm garlic-anchovy dip served with an array of raw vegetables. And when my sister brought her boyfriend home for the holidays for the first time, he brought aneggless, butterless, milkless Depression-era spice cakethat his Pennsylvania family always made for Christmas. Strange as it might sound, it also became a familiar addition to our table.
But no matter how our holiday table changes as the years go by every Christmas morning, I can always count on the sweet smell of Sunshine Cake wafting up to my bedroom. Because without it, it wouldn't feel like Christmas.
